


A Ruffian Sorcerer's Notebook

by anacharsis



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 01:31:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10934199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anacharsis/pseuds/anacharsis
Summary: Rainor is a teenage half-elf who has problems with elves, humans, authority, and the inexplicable fires that break out around him. Then he makes some new friends.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This is the origin story of a character I created for a dearly beloved D&D campaign. All characters are original, but I obviously didn't create D&D.  
> 2\. "Boneclaw" is an homage to Ursula Vernon's award-winning comic, "Digger". (http://diggercomic.com) Read it now... seriously, I'll just wait here...  
> 3\. "Sabadhmannag" is pronounced "SAH-mah-nahg"

It was late summer, and for several months I had been living in the deep forest, trying my best not to burn it down around me.

I was nineteen. Infantile by elf standards, and still quite young even for one of mixed human parentage. I had alienated my elven mother and her family several years before, thinking to live in the city with my late father's kin. But "half-elf" was a label that gave no hint of the peculiar birthright I would eventually discover, and so the dull years of adolescence dragged on, punctuated only by the unexplained fires which seemed to erupt in my vicinity.

It was the increasing violence and frequency of these which had driven me far into the wilds beyond town, fleeing both my guardians' superstitions, and a bench warrant from the city guard. My days were spent hunting game, and gathering brush for shelter — along with plenty of water to soak it down as a precaution. My nights were damp, but I slept soundly, and woke each day blissfully free of concern for my future.

I was proud of my quick adaption to the outdoor life, and fancied myself a natural survivor. I learned to make snares, and fashioned a bow and arrows which I thought rather good, though nothing like the fine elven longbows I'd been trained to shoot as a youngster. My sodden campsites were mostly secure against combustion, and the only fires I saw were intentional, struck with ordinary flint.

One warm and pleasant evening, under a beautiful full moon, I found sleep unexpectedly difficult to achieve. Nothing was obviously amiss, but I felt compelled to sit up from my bower, and try to cast my senses out into the forest. Long minutes passed fruitlessly, but then a pair of clues were delivered by a chance turning of the wind: a faint whiff of smoke, and the barest suggestion of a drum.

The Boneclaw tribe had arrived.

***

In the days which followed, my vigilance spiraled rapidly upward. I saw no obvious sign of my presumed neighbors, but this only served to heighten my apprehension. I began to roam farther from camp, seeking a key to unlock this mystery. As I searched, my imagination spun endless possibilities, friendly and fiendish alike. Either would be preferable to this uncertainty, I was convinced.

One morning, returning from an overnight reconnaissance, I found the print of a large foot within the outer perimeter of my camp. It had been well covered, but my constant soaking of the area had softened the earth, holding just enough trace for my limited tracking ability to detect. The print was barefoot, larger than my own, and clearly did not belong to an animal. Furthermore, the attempted concealment proved both intelligence, and intent — the maker of this track was a hunter, and I had become the quarry.

If you've never lived in rugged circumstances, it may be difficult to understand just how insistently my bed of pine boughs called in that moment, despite the immediacy of the danger. But those who've slept upon bare earth — or on a ledge of rock, or wedged into the crook of a tall tree — know that comfort is measured on a sliding scale, and that a bed of damp pine is far better than none at all. Still, there was no hesitation as I turned away from camp and its amenities, plunging into the undergrowth with as much haste as the need for stealth would afford.

During my time in the wild, I'd done well for an untrained teen living alone. But that didn't make me an experienced tracker, and so the hunter's identity was still unclear to me. Offhand I knew that a large, barefoot hominid print most likely meant orcs. But there were other possibilities — bugbears, ogres, and gnolls to name just a few. And from what I recalled, few of them hunted alone.

So I ran, deep into the forest. Sleeping little, I traveled day and night as fast as I dared. I could not spare time to hunt or fish, so my diet was reduced to berries and nuts, plus the few strips of dried meat I carried for emergencies. This situation more than qualified.

I evaded pursuit for nearly five days. With each running step, my sense of belonging to the world of men seemed to further erode. I shaved my head with my hunting knife, hacking off the long, red locks to leave hanging from a branch as a taunt. Of clothing, I kept only my moccasins and a simple binding around my waist and loins. For warmth, I covered myself with ocher clay from the bank of a stream, then for camouflage added charcoal and ash from an oak felled by lightning. And each night, the moon waxed fuller overhead.

On the fifth night, just as the full moon reached its zenith above me, I heard the drums again, as I had weeks before. But this time there was no turning of wind — in my panicked flight, I had in fact _closed_ the distance between my former camp, and that of my antagonists. Escape had become irrelevant.

I stopped running. The reversal of fortune turned my empty stomach, and the shocked pounding of my heart was loud in my ears, louder even than the drumming barely a mile ahead. The full weight of my exhaustion fell upon me.

For nearly a week, I had somehow managed to ignore both fatigue and near-starvation, but now they rose up redoubled, like a debt long overdue. Fate would not be cheated. My resistance crumbled, and I watched like a bystander as my body started moving again, walking toward the sound of the drums.

***

I walked steadily toward the encampment. A breeze from the north drove an unexpected chill across my cooling skin, cutting through the layers of ash, charcoal, and clay with which I'd camouflaged myself. The sharp sensation lifted some of the fog from my senses, and while exhaustion still hung like a weight upon my shoulders, I nevertheless began to perceive my surroundings with renewed clarity.

The drumming was now very close, and very loud. Between its pulses, I could discern voices, deep and rough, chanting in time to the pounding rhythm. I smelled wood smoke, and alongside that, an even more compelling aroma — food. The smell of cooking pulled me forward like a physical force, hastening my steps as I drew nearer to the source.

Light from the huge fires soon became visible through the trees, and instinctual caution slowed my pace. I knew that pursuit must now be close at my heels, but understood as well that a camp like this would be guarded. Ducking into a thicket, I cast my eyes furtively into the trees around me.

Amongst their privileges, elves enjoy remarkably good eyesight, and see with clarity even in near-total darkness. My own vision had not been highly praised by elven relations, but was still exceptional compared to the humans I'd known. I was able to see the outline of several large figures, ranged throughout the woods around their camp. 

Visible only in silhouette, the sentries were tall and broad, armed with axes and spears. But their postures were idle, and their attention seemed to be on the revels behind them, from which they had been excluded by duty. Getting past them would not be difficult.

I crept through the underbrush, silently enduring the wrath of countless thorns and nettles. Finally the guarded perimeter was behind me. I rose cautiously to my feet, and approaching the treeline was rewarded with my first clear view of the scene beyond.

What I saw, turned out to be orcs. The largest orc tribe I'd ever seen -- but then, it was also the _first_ orc tribe I'd ever seen. Later, I would learn that the Boneclaw were actually very small as tribes go, a fact which probably helped events to unfold as they did.

There was a large central pit, from which an enormous fire rose into the air. Circling it were a dozen or so massive individuals, dancing and brandishing weapons which glinted menacingly in the flame's heat-shimmering glow. Another dozen powerfully-built orcs were pounding on drums as large as themselves — some actually much larger — keeping time and chanting in perfect unison.

Surrounding the largest fire, were several smaller pits upon which food was being cooked. Despite the strangeness of the scene before me, and the knowledge that I was now among sworn enemies, my only thought was of the meat turning slowly on a spit, barely twenty paces from where I stood. Sizzling, aromatic fat dropped into the fire with each rotation.

I paused a moment, to reflect that my life would momentarily be forfeit, and that I seemed to be sincerely fine with that.

Then I stepped out of the treeline, walked up to the fire, and began to eat.


	2. Chapter 2

When I was nine years old, I was awakened one night by a loud crash, followed by the sound of my mother rushing from her room. She had been a warrior of some renown in youth, and I trailed behind as she kicked in the door to the kitchen, still in night-clothes but with sword in hand, and ready to lay waste to any foe that dared to breach her threshold.

The trio of raccoons she found there started a little at the commotion, then nonchalantly resumed foraging when mother stopped in her tracks, sputtering with confused rage. Finally, she regained composure enough to swap the sword for a broom, and quickly banished the furry scavengers back into the night.

As I crossed the short distance between the treeline and the cook-fire, I thought about those raccoons, and the offended protest they had chattered in their retreat. When contested against hunger, propriety rarely wins out.

I risked a glance toward the central fire pit, but saw no heads turning away from the chanting, drumming, and dancing. The food was unattended as I reached the spit, and with my knife hacked off a leg of… something. I couldn't tell, and in that moment didn't care. Seating myself on a rough-hewn bench, I began tearing at the meat with my teeth.

For all the pleasure it gave, that roasted leg of an unknown beast could have been the finest cuisine. I gave myself over to the joy of my first hot meal in a week, and vigilance for my surroundings fell by the wayside.

Several blissful minutes passed, before I sensed a shadow falling over me. Someone had stepped into the light cast by the huge central fire. Barely a heartbeat later, I felt a blade at my throat, and heard a voice growling low into my ear.

"Well. Aren't we cozy?"

***

I was surprised to hear Common spoken so plainly in the midst of an orc camp. This is a confession of which I'm not proud.

My mother's family were "High Elves", and unapologetically racist. I'd been raised under a constant barrage of stereotypes — greedy dwarves, lazy halflings, and inscrutable gnomes were invariably contrasted against the timeless nobility of the elves, who of course wanted nothing more than to help the "lesser" races to better themselves.

My human relations saw the elves as effete, patronizing busybodies, but otherwise held most of the same prejudices. Both groups reviled orcs as brutish and ignorant, living mostly for battle and slaughter.

Orcs were smelly, and stupid. Their own language was animalistic to any civilized ear, and their use of the Common tongue was always comically inept. Most tavern jesters maintained a ready supply of orc jokes, and lumbering imitations — complete with false tusks — were a popular staple for travelling minstrel performers.

I however, had rejected the narrow-minded beliefs of my elders, elven and human alike. Or so I had thought. A flood of conflicting narratives now rushed through my head, threatening to wash me downstream into deeper waters of confusion and doubt.

But there was also the small matter of a knife at my throat. I returned my attention to the here and now.

"Aren't you a bit far from home, elf child?", inquired the voice in a tone of both amusement, and sincere menace.

I bristled at the words. "First of all, I'm not a child. And secondly, I'm not an elf."

"But you are far from home," insisted my captor.

"These woods are my home," I said, with as much defiance as I could muster.

"Are they indeed? Why then, we must be neighbors." The cold blade was removed. "So tell me, neighbor — to what do I owe the honor of this visit?" And with that, I was pulled up from the bench, then spun roughly by the shoulders to face my antagonist.

I was eye-to-eye with a tall, muscular woman. She wore a loose, sleeveless tunic embroidered with runescript, and there was a long dagger sheathed at her hip, alongside a well-worn leather pouch. She was about my height, with short tusks extending just above her upper lip.

Her ears were pointed, like my own. And like mine, her head was shaved. Most strikingly, her skin had been coated with thick layers of ash, charcoal, and ocher clay. Just like mine. She stared in momentary disbelief, then laughed.

"Neighbor? Claws and bones, boy — _we're practically twins!_ "

***

"I have so many questions," said the tall woman whose hands were still clamped around my upper arms. "But most puzzling right now, is why you are even here. This camp is not your place, nor is my supper yours for the taking." The mirth had left her voice, and I saw a red glint as her eyes bored into my own. 

"I've been running for five days," I said. "Your hunters would have caught me tomorrow. Now I won't die hungry."

"Hunters? Do you mean a scouting party?"

"Whatever you call them, it doesn't matter. There were tracks around my camp, and someone had tried to cover them. But I saw, and I've been running ever since."

The amusement returned to her voice. "So you ran here. Looking for a nice, hot meal before your gruesome death?"

"I didn't know where your camp was. I just ran." 

Her eyes narrowed. "And what made you cover your skin in this way? The ocher, charcoal, and ash?" The question was clearly significant. 

Under the steady gaze of red eyes, I thought about the instinctual state in which I'd spent those days. "It felt right," I finally said. "I don't think I can explain, but it all just felt... right. That sounds stupid, I know."

"Not at all. That answer may have just saved your life." Her grip on my arms loosened. "Now tell me... what do you know about my people?"

Startled by the implication that my luck might be turning, I considered what I actually knew about orcs. I cast aside all the jokes and pantomimes, whispered rumors and horror stories, and behind it all I found—

"Nothing," I admitted. "I... I don't really know anything about them. About you."

"Another good answer," she said. "Ignorance is perfectly honorable, if one is willing to learn. But are you willing?" She released my shoulders, then took hold of my chin, drawing me closer until our ash-streaked faces were only inches apart. "I could let you go," she whispered. "You could go back to the woods, and I would forget ever having seen you. Or you could stay here, with me."

"Stay here?" I was confused, and the closeness of her face to mine was not helping. "Is that even possible? You said something about 'gruesome death'..."

"I have a measure of discretionary authority. If I take you as my own, they won't attack you outright. But you'd need to earn their respect, and that won't be easy." She released my chin, and stood back. "I need an answer. Will you stay, or no?"

I could return to the forest, turn my back on this perplexing individual. Or I could accept her strange, ambiguous offer, and see where this road took me.

"I'll stay."

"Good choice," she said. "Now hold still. This next part is going to hurt."

She placed a hand in the center of my chest, just below my collarbone, then spoke a word that I couldn't quite hear. The air became charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks.

***

At this point, there is a gap in my recollection of events. 

***

Consciousness returned slowly. I was aware of a searing pain in my chest, although for a long while it felt like someone else's problem. Beneath me was something soft, and there was a ceiling somewhere far above. Nearby, someone I couldn't see was snoring loudly.

My eyes would not focus properly, but my other senses were alert. I smelled incense, and fresh herbs, and could hear the orc woman moving around the room, humming to herself. I opened my mouth, but could produce no sound.

"Don't try to speak yet," she said, moving to my side and helping me into a sitting position. "Your body is still recovering. Here, drink this."

I sipped at the earthenware cup that was pressed to my lips. The liquid was thick, and sweetly fragrant. It burned a little in my throat, then blossomed into a warmth that spread throughout my body, until even my fingers and toes were tingling. The pain in my chest subsided to a dull ache, the agony of a moment before now barely a memory. 

I had been healed. It was an understatement. Furthermore, both my sight and my thoughts were now fully clear and sharp. I cast my eyes around the room. 

I was in a cave. The front was curtained off, but the space I could see was roughly ten feet by twenty, with a ceiling that now seemed much lower than it had in my initial delirium. A small oil lamp provided light which would barely have been adequate for a human, but which for me was more than ample.

The lamp sat atop a large work table, piled high with jars, flasks, and plants both fresh and dried. Beside the table was a brazier with a few coals still glowing. I saw shelves against the wall, overloaded with various tools and instruments which I did not recognize, and next to that a rack of weapons, where swords and spears jostled alongside quarterstaves and heavy wooden clubs.

I was comfortably reclining on a bed of skins and fur pelts. The woman was seated on the floor nearby, with her back against an even larger pile of furs. She was watching me. I saw now that her skin was a dark green-gray, like soapstone, and that she had washed away the clay and ashes.

I looked down at myself, and saw that my own layers of protective sediment had also been scrubbed away. The flesh beneath looked a bit raw, and very pink by comparison. Scattered across my skin were dozens of tiny, reddish-brown flecks, the dried remnants of blood from wounds that the healing elixir had instantly mended.

But in the center of my chest — where my new benefactor had placed her hand, just before the world went briefly away — there was something new. A trio of markings, elongated triangles in a downward-pointing array. It looked a bit like a tattoo, if tattoos were made with scorching arcane energy instead of needles.

I touched the affected area, and was grateful to find that despite the disconcerting appearance, this too was fully healed. I looked up and asked, "What does it mean?"

"What does a brand ever mean? It means you're mine, boy. And what's mine, no one in the tribe will knowingly damage." She gave me a long, appraising look, and then smiled. "Which really would be a great shame, in my opinion."

Following her glance, I finally realized that ashes and clay were not the only thing missing from my attire. Distracted by my new surroundings, and the miraculous healing, I'd failed to notice that my modest wrapping was no longer present.

Five days of desperation — and several months of faux-primitive living — were not enough to erase years of social conditioning. My ears and face became suddenly hot, and once more I seemed incapable of speech. I wondered if it were possible for a person to literally explode from sheer embarrassment.

As if to answer, the coals on the brazier suddenly flared into life, and the lamp flashed brightly as its oil combusted. The room fell into darkness as the respective fuels exhausted themselves. I shrank into the bedding, and tried my best to wish myself out of existence altogether.

"Now _that_ is interesting," said my host. I heard a rustling as she rose to her feet, and saw the spark of a flint a moment later as she lit a small candle. Turning back to face me, her expression was one of curiosity. "Does that sort of thing happen a lot?"

"It used to," I said. "Not much since I came to the woods though."

"Very interesting indeed," she mused. "Tell me, boy — and what do I call you anyway?"

"My... my name is Rainor Haeredon," I finally managed to say.

"I'm Ghorza. Very nice to meet you, Rainor." Smiling, she returned to my side, and lightly placed her hand on the back of my head. "So tell me, Rainor Haeredon — does your neck ever itch?"

***

I struggled to make sense of the question.

"My neck?" I said. "I don't… I mean, the skin is dry, and sometimes it does itch pretty bad. Why?"

"I'll explain later," Ghorza said, and patted the huge fur bolster against which she had been resting. "First, I need to introduce you to someone."

The bolster lurched and rolled over, and I suddenly understood the snoring I'd heard earlier. A shaggy form rose to its feet, and lazily padded toward me.

Ghorza scratched the massive creature behind one ear, producing an appreciative rumble. "Sabi, this is Rainor. He lives here now, so be nice to him." She grasped my shoulder and pulled me closer to the beast. "Rainor, this is Sabadhmannag, my best friend. Try to stay on her good side."

"That's a bear."

She chuckled. "Nothing escapes you, does it? Yes, Sabi's a cave bear. I raised her from a cub. Her mother was my own mother's companion." Ghorza frowned. "A better friend than my father ever was, rest his bones."

I was unsure how to respond. "Were you close to them?" My own experiences with family hadn't been terribly warm, but I vaguely understood that this lack of sentiment wasn't universal.

In the awkward pause that followed, I regretted my choice to speak up. Ghorza said nothing, and for the first time since we'd met I saw her looking uncomfortable.

Sabadhmannag broke the tension by snorting loudly, then rolling onto her side with her enormous paws extended toward me. I had difficulty believing that the gesture meant what it seemed to mean.

"Does she want me to—"

"Rub her belly? I'm afraid so." The shadow lifted slightly from Ghorza's face. "No sense of decorum, that bear."


End file.
